My Heart (Yearns For You)

Frostfall came at the same time every year, but it had never felt special to Lars until now. The winter solstice, previously just another day to bundle up in furs in hopes of warmth as he trekked across vast sheets of ice, was now something he was waiting for with something new yawning in his belly — anticipation.

The gift he had purchased at the winter market had been sitting in his pack for weeks. No matter how much Pascal whined, he refused to let her carry it for him; whether it was out of some sense of obligation or fear that she might unintentionally stumble upon its contents, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter in the end, though. Regardless of his reasons, Lars was determined not to let Pascal’s curiosity spoil the surprise.

Unfortunately, this meant that her interest in the contents of his bag were only heightened further. There were lines that Pascal wouldn’t cross — she knew how much Lars valued his personal space and belongings, so she’d never touch his things without his permission — but that didn’t stop her from poking and prodding at the issue with lighthearted jabs all the way through their winter treks.

“You’ve been so secretive lately, Lars,” she called out from behind him, hooves picking up in a high dressage trot — one that usually indicated excitement or impishness of some sort. “You’re always quiet, but now you’re suspicious.” Lars could hear her smile in her voice.

“I’m not.” He tried to think of more to say, but found himself drawing a blank. Any defence he could possibly use would only serve to pique Pascal’s interest further rather than acting as a distraction, and yet staying silent would simply draw out the conversation further. He clenched his fists by his side, cursing his social ineptitude. If he had the command of language that she did, perhaps he wouldn’t struggle so much in these situations.

Pascal cantered ahead, stopping with her legs splayed out to block Lars from proceeding any further. Her hoofprints were defiantly stamped into the snow, her arms outstretched as if threatening to envelope Lars in a giant hug if he even dared to rush past her. Logically, Lars knew that he could slip around her if truly needed — four legs were faster than two, but he could accelerate more quickly, whereas Pascal took a few extra seconds to build up her speed.

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?” she asked, grinning in a way that was far too sweet for the mischievous tone of her teasing. “You never told me why you wanted to go to the marketplace, either.”

“I… didn’t,” Lars fumbled.

Pascal leaned forward, her milky eyes wide and round in a display of faux shock. One hand came to clutch at her chest through her furred cloak, accompanied by an exaggerated gasp of horror. “Are you keeping secrets from me, Larsipan?”

“No!” His answer came too quickly to be a joke, intense in his denial. He flushed at his own unexpected seriousness, knowing that Pascal had probably just been messing around, and averted his gaze, defensiveness carved into the set of his shoulders.

Pascal softened, as she always did. She always knew when he was unsettled. “You’re allowed to keep secrets,” she sighed, warm and gentle like a summer breeze. “I shouldn’t pry into your affairs. I was just curious.”

Lars chanced a glance up at her. She was chillingly beautiful in the winter, the only green for miles. And yes, it embarrassed him to think of her as beautiful, but there was no other way of putting it: she was beautiful, a raw spirit of nature and life in a way that he never was. If he was the icy blade of winter, Pascal was the soft kiss of summer, melting away the chill that lay deep in the earth. Her silhouette cut a sharp line against the blank white backdrop of the snow capped mountain, her waterfalling hair tumbling down her shoulders and back in a way that he ached to touch. Flowers were braided into her inky tresses, further brightening her complexion.

He knew from experience that Pascal took great care to grow only the prettiest flowers for her hair, coaxing them up from the ground with gentle dancing fingers and murmured songs. It was harder to wake the seeds in the winter, she’d told him before. He’d even watched her do it in the early hours of morning, kneeling at the roots of an old tree as she hummed a low tune, clearly trying not to disturb his sleep. It was futile, of course: Lars was a hunter and slept so lightly that a strong breeze could awaken him from his slumber. Still, he faked sleepiness and watched as she spun snowdrops out of the ground, pulling them up like they were aching to be plucked from the cold earth by her soft hands.

Lars felt like her magic worked on him sometimes. He found himself swaying towards her like the reeds they waded through in the summer, drawn towards her golden touch. He knew it was a silly thought, though — wood magic didn’t work on satyrs. It was more likely that he was simply subconsciously drawn towards company of any kind after so many years on his own.

“I know, but I don’t want to keep secrets,” he replied slowly, measuring out each of his words carefully. “I’ve spent years doing that. I want to be able to share things with you.”

His eyes darted up to meet hers. Twin crescent moons smiled down at him, gentle in the curve of her smile. An itching hotness crept under his skin.

“I mean, not just you. Anyone would do, really,” he rambled on, watching as her smile only grew bigger.

“It’s okay, Lars,” she laughed. “I get what you’re trying to say, and it’s a nice thought, but sometimes it’s good to keep things just for yourself. Not everything has to be shared.”

Keep things for himself? Lars thought back to the squirmy, uncomfortable twisting in his gut that he often felt when he stared at Pascal for too long. Then, he imagined talking about it. He tried to visualise the expression on her face as he confessed to— what, exactly? It wasn’t precisely unpleasant, but it wasn’t a comfortable sensation, either. And what if Pascal took it to heart? What if she thought he felt uncomfortable because of her?

She was right, after all. Some things were better left unsaid.

“I’ll tell you soon,” he sighed. “I promise.”

Pascal didn’t respond; instead, the pair turned back to the road, footsteps crunching in the fresh mountain snow.

---

Lars had been counting down the days, measuring each sunrise as it rose later and later until the day was finally upon him. He lay awake beneath the dark winter’s night for hours, painfully aware of how Pascal slept soundly mere metres from him. In all the time that he had to prepare for the day, he had spent no time at all making any firm decisions. How would he give her the present? Where would he do it? It had to be somewhere special, or at the very least memorable. He wanted it to be a good memory. A new memory. One that she could hold onto for a long time.

He cursed his inability to make a decision when it truly counted. In the boiling intensity of a fight, he had no problem acting efficiently and without hesitation, but the matters of the heart were an unfamiliar battlefield to him. The thought of being open and vulnerable for even a moment made him feel cornered, much like the very prey that he specialised in hunting, but it was Pascal, he reminded himself. Pascal, who had walked shoulder to shoulder with him through thick and thin without flinching from his cursed form. Pascal, who had searched tirelessly for him all these years, never giving up hope that he would be out there somewhere, waiting for her.

It was alright to be vulnerable, even if it was just this once. He trusted her with his life, he thought. And as he thought it, he realised it was true.

But he still had to figure out some way of giving this gift to her in a way that was thoughtful and meaningful, something which was far out of the depth of a hunter. As he lay on his back tracing constellations in the sky, Pascal lightly snoring — she’d never admit it, but she did snore — close enough to him for him to reach out and brush his fingers through the curtain of hair over her tail, he tried to tally up the things he knew about her.

Pascal loved flowers and gardens. Little forest grottos full of wild creatures like kitlikes and kettlecats were her favourite places to spend sunny afternoons, bathing in the dappled sunlight as it filtered through layer after layer of leaves. They could never stay in one place for too long, but Lars always secretly allowed her to spend more time than they could really afford playing with the green crabbit they had run into on their travels a few months ago.

There were no flowers in winter, though. Not that Lars knew of, anyway, and he had seen a lot of winter in his lifetime.

Unless, of course, there was a magically protected garden nearby. Lars had crossed paths with people of all walks of life in his time, but the satyrs who worshipped the grand nature god were perhaps some of the most memorable. It made sense, in a way, to pay respects to the ultimate creator of satyrkind, although Lars was hardly the religious type. He had never paid much attention to their religious ramblings, but he recalled that they maintained a chain of evergreen temples across the lands, free to any satyrs who may stumble upon them. It was important for a satyr to be close to nature. According to the doctrine of the worshippers, anyway.

Religious considerations aside, Lars was sure that there would be a garden full of flowers for Pascal to enjoy if he could simply track down the nearest temple. Fortunately, this wasn’t such a hard task: the magical beacons constructed at each one emitted a unique frequency that drew satyrs to their locations. Not so strong that it couldn’t be ignored, but strong enough that the instinctive sense of safety was rewired. At least, that was what Lars had been told — he had never before had any reason to seek out one of the sacred sites.

There was no time to test the theory. As soon as Pascal stirred, he would have to lead the way confidently in hopes that his feet would unerringly lead him to his desired destination. So when Pascal rose with a yawn and a stretch, Lars rubbed his sleepless eyes and shouldered his pack, already prepared to follow the pull from within.

“Lars? Is that you?” Pascal grumbled through a yawn, her moondrop eyes bleary with the fog of sleep. She was not a morning person; at least, not in the winter. She rose with the sun.

“We’ve got a long journey ahead of us today,” he responded gruffly, resolutely avoiding thinking about the way a sleepy Pascal tempted him back to his sleeping bag, particularly after a sleepless night of thinking. “I want to make it to our next stop by nightfall.”

Pascal snorted ungracefully. “Nightfall is practically three hours after sunrise. That’s a steep goal.” Nevertheless, she prepared her things, strapping their supplies to her back with the practised movements of someone who had done it a thousand times.

Lars hoped that she hadn’t realised the significance of the day and connected the dots, but he knew Pascal was smarter than most people gave her credit for. Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes and counted to three. After three, when he didn’t quite feel ready, he counted to ten. Then, he opened his eyes and turned to the east, his feet moving of their own accord.

He couldn’t help but notice that Pascal seemed less lively as they travelled, but perhaps that was because his own inner focus had reduced his conversational capacity considerably. He rather suspected that Pascal could have a more enlightening conversation with a toadstool than with him, especially with the way that he avoided her gaze every time their eyes met — not because he didn’t care to speak to her, but rather because the nervous thrashing of his stomach kicked up several notches whenever he even thought of opening his mouth. It was easier to be silent.

Eventually, though, he felt something tug within his chest. He stumbled forward, saving himself from falling at the last moment, and began to pick up the pace. It was close, he could tell; the temple would be just over this hill, and then he’d be able to give Pascal the perfect gift in the perfect place. Behind him, he heard Pascal calling out in alarm, then the sound of hooves thudding against the ground as she tried to catch up.

Lars ran, and when he couldn’t run, he crawled. He could feel the impending sunset like a countdown carved into his brain, spurring him onwards. Just a little more, a little more, and then it would be right there. Everything would be perfect.

He reached the top of the hill and all hope died in his chest.

There, stretched out beneath him, was a giant, crystalline glacier. It pulsed with a glow coming from deep inside, a pale blue that arced out across the frozen stream in bolts of bright colour. It was as if time itself had frozen in this place, the little spring caught in the space between seconds. Even the droplets of water spilling out over the rocks had been frozen in midair, held in place by some sublime magic of the natural world.

Lars stifled the prickle in his eyes just in time to feel Pascal’s shadow cast over him and to hear her panting behind him.

“Lars? Is everything okay?” Even through a haze of exhaustion, she still found it in herself to worry only for him. It hurt a little in a way Lars couldn’t quite explain.

“I’m fine. I’m— I’m sorry,” he said at last, staring blankly at his hands.

Pascal leaned over him, the ends of her hair brushing his shoulder slightly. He didn’t push her away. “What are you sorry for?”

He bit his lip, the words wrenched out of him by force. “I wanted this Frostfall to be special for you, but I’ve ruined it. I was going to— It was—”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” Pascal was running light fingertips down Lars’ arms before he could even notice how worked up he was getting. Her touch settled him, somehow. “Besides, this is beautiful. I’ve never seen something like this before in all my years of travelling.”

Pascal stared in awe at the glacier, the pale blue light washing over her face and brightening the azure colour of her patches. She took one step forward, then another, and turned her head to smile back at Lars.

“This is a wonderful present,” she said at last, reaching a hand out to Lars. “Do you want to come and get a closer look?”

Lars shifted his weight nervously, but ultimately took the hand reaching out to him, trying his best not to focus on the softness of her touch or the way her grip grounded him. The glacier hadn’t been the present, of course, and he had missed his opportunity to correct Pascal’s assumption, but he found himself thinking that perhaps this Frostfall wasn’t beyond saving. Pascal seemed to enjoy the sight of the raw frost magic, though it certainly wasn’t her domain, and he could still manage to give her the present in a way that was special. They had come all this way, after all.

They walked down to the glacier together, Lars’ face flushed not from the cold, but from some other feeling that he couldn’t quite define. Their hands were jointly clasped even as they walked across flat ground, though Lars told himself it was only to steady each other. He tried to pretend that his palms weren’t sweating. Eventually, Pascal drew to a stop, her fingers slipping out of Lars’ loose grasp as she placed her palms against the surface of the glacier.

“It’s warm,” she whispered, eyes wide and focused on the place where the magic pulsed within the ice. “I thought it would be cold. It looks cold on the outside,” she muttered quietly, “but that’s just its appearance.” She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes, and her voice wavered slightly when she continued. “It reminds me of you.”

Lars’ fingers itched for his pack, but he sensed that now wasn’t the time. Pascal was being extraordinarily vulnerable in a way she usually wasn’t — she was always so strong and confident in a way that he never felt he was, but somehow he found that seeing her so bare and open didn’t detract from that at all. In fact, it required strength to be vulnerable; strength that Lars drew up from deep within himself and clutched onto for dear life as he replied.

“Why? Because it’s blue?” He knew that wasn’t it, but he was scared to hear the truth.

Pascal’s eyes snapped open, almost blinding in their intensity as she traced the veins of magic with her fingers. “No,” she said with a small smile, “ although now that you mention it, you are very blue.”

Lars forced a wobbly smile of his own, scratching the back of his head nervously. “Then what is it? What reminds you of me?”

“It’s exactly as I said. It looks cold. By all logic, it should be cold. But once you get close enough to touch it, it’s… not.” Pascal reached for one of Lars’ hands and pressed his palm against the ice. “It’s startlingly warm. It’s comforting, almost.”

And she was right — the pulse of frost magic felt like it was cracking Lars open and filling him up like a well, washing out any feelings of coldness and warming him right to his core. More than the glacier itself, though, Lars was startlingly aware of the fact that Pascal’s hand had not moved from the place where it pinned his own in place, their fingers pressed against each other.

He drew back, his hand falling to his side. Pascal followed wordlessly, reorienting herself to face him.

“Thank you for bringing me here, Lars. It feels like I’m closer to you,” she said unabashedly. “Like I’m closer to the part of you that’s one with the ice and the frost.”

Now was the time. If he missed this moment, he wouldn’t have another chance. So, breathing in deeply, he steeled himself for battle.

“Actually, this isn’t the gift.” Lars cringed at the wavering tone of his voice, an indicator of his nerves. “The reason I wanted to go to the market was to get you a present for Frostfall. I know that you haven’t had the chance to spend it with anyone for a few years.” He twitched anxiously. “I know I may not be your first choice, but I wanted to do what I could to make it special for you.”

Then, before he could chicken out, he tugged the box free from where it was nestled deep in his pack and opened it up.

He saw the way Pascal’s face changed from confusion to realisation to pure wonder. She wasn’t one for jewellery, Lars had thought, but perhaps he had been mistaken — perhaps she had never been given the chance to afford such frivolous pretty things. Indeed, she reached for the box almost reverently, her eyes glimmering with overflowing emotion, though she didn’t actually touch. It seemed as though she was almost uncertain, maybe unsure that this was really for her.

“Go on.” Lars put on his best approximation of the warm smile that Pascal so often directed towards him, hoping it would comfort her the same way it comforted him.

It was what she needed to take the last step. Her hands brushed the box lightly, then darted inwards to reach for the bracelets, one gold and one silver.

“Lars,” she whispered, “they’re beautiful.”

“They’re a matching set. One for you, and one for me.” He flushed darkly. “They’ll glow when we think of each other. When we’re apart.”

It was then that he plucked up the courage to meet her eyes and, to his surprise, saw tears streaming down her cheeks. Had he read this wrong? Did she hate them? Or maybe it was too presumptuous of him to get a matching set; maybe she felt uncomfortable because of his bold actions. He reached forward instinctively, hands itching to brush the tears off her face.

“Is there something wrong? Are you sad? Crying is a sign of sadness, right?” He found himself stumbling over the words, suddenly panicked by her reaction. “Do you hate it? There was a thing called a camera, maybe I should have bought that—”

“No!” Pascal’s voice cut through the wintry silence like a clear bell. “No, Lars, of course I don’t hate it.” She sniffled, rubbing the tears from her eyes. “I’m just so happy.”

Happy tears. Pascal had told him about them once, explained that sometimes, emotions were so overwhelming that tears just spilled out. It was a beautiful thing, she had said, for your feelings to be displayed so openly and without shame. As Lars took in the sight of Pascal before him, tears crystallising upon her verdant cheeks, he found himself agreeing. She was prettier than she had ever been, the smile of her eyes only brightened by the twinkle of the teardrops pooling in her palms. It wasn’t prim and proper and composed; it was unashamedly vulnerable, and for that reason he found himself aching to hold her more than ever. He wanted to guard this sight from the eyes of others, to save it only for himself. Would it be alright to be so possessive of this little part of Pascal? Would it be alright to own this little memory of her, tears running down her face as she smiled in the snow, her hair falling down her shoulders like ribbons?

“Can you put it on for me?” she asked, still snuffling through her tears.

“Of course,” Lars hurried to reply, fingers scrambling for the golden beaded bracelet.

The ice blue beads glinted in the sunlight, snowflakes spinning slowly within as he slipped the bangle onto her startlingly narrow wrist. He tried his best to avoid touching her, aware that once he did, he wasn’t sure he could let go, but his thumb brushed against his wrist and he found himself pausing. Then, ever so slowly, he inched his hand downwards until her hand was clasped in his. This time, it was him taking the initiative. This time, it was the first.

And as the two of them stood before the magical glacier, bracelet adorning Pascal’s wrist and hands held like they’d never let go, little fractals of snow began to fall from the sky.

Frost, falling. Lars would hold this memory for years to come and, unbeknownst to him, Pascal would do the same.